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by aliensundermybed, Anyawen



Series: cigars and cigarettes [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), The Hour (TV)
Genre: Contains Illustrations, Country House Party, Don't copy to another site, Flirting, M/M, Pre-Slash, alternating POV by chapter, and investigations, and invitations, and irritation, and revelations, from the hour s1e3, hunting and guns, of various sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26576482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliensundermybed/pseuds/aliensundermybed, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/pseuds/Anyawen
Summary: Freddie Lyon is going to a party. A posh party at a country house filled with posh socialites —and his bloody annoying (and attractive) neighbor, James Bond. As he continues his investigations into the murder of Ruth Elms, and learns a few things about Bond as well. Interesting things ...
Relationships: James Bond & Freddie Lyon, James Bond/Freddie Lyon
Series: cigars and cigarettes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1933087
Comments: 10
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a continuation of the story begun in 'Joyride' and is a crossover of Bond and The Hour. Since it's already clearly AU, it does not follow the historical illegality of homosexuality. It's not criminal, but may have negative ramifications to social life or career prospects, if one is in certain social circles or professions.
> 
> Fic is complete and will update on Wednesdays/Sundays. Many thanks to nothingtosay and Linorien for the use of their eyeballs :)

Freddie flushed a bit as he pulled socks and pants out of a dresser drawer and tossed them into his bag. He should have packed for the weekend party at Hector’s in-law’s country house last night rather than scrambling to pack before heading in to work this morning. He felt rushed now, despite knowing that he had time thanks to his annoyingly attractive, friendly, and bloody irritating neighbor, Mr James Bond, and his generous offer of a ride to work.

Bond was standing in Freddie’s bedroom doorway, leaning against the door frame, watching him pack. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. Even just standing there, lips barely quirked into a smile, he was seductive —flirtatious without even trying. Freddie knew Bond didn’t mean anything by it, and was cross with himself for being flustered by the man’s presence.

The idea of the country party, and formal socializing with Hector’s posh guests, didn’t improve his mood. Of course he’d accepted when Marnie invited him. He liked her. He liked Hector, too, even though he didn’t really want to. He worried about Bel’s obvious interest in Hector, and what it might do to the show. He’d have turned the invitation down except he hoped to keep an eye on Bel to stop her doing anything rash. Likely a fool’s errand, but then, he knew himself for a fool.

A fool who was about to spend the weekend not only with privileged country socialites, but also with the blue-eyed devil who was standing in his bedroom doorway, waiting for him to finish packing.

Because of course Bond and Hector knew one another. In spite of serving in different branches of the military —Hector in the Army, Bond in the Navy— they’d met twice during the war. Though they’d not kept in touch, their brief interactions had apparently led to a lasting sense of camaraderie. When Hector had chanced to meet Bond as he dropped Freddie off at Lime Grove yesterday morning, in what had become a semi-regular occurrence, he’d invited him to join the party, sure that they’d find an opportunity over the weekend to catch up.

Bond had accepted, and being the thoughtful bastard that he was, he’d then offered to bring Freddie’s suitcase with him when he came, since Freddie would be leaving directly from work with Hector and Bel. 

Which was why Bond was now standing in the doorway of Freddie’s bedroom while Freddie pulled his suit from the wardrobe and folded it into the suitcase.

“Is that really what you’re planning to wear?” Bond asked.

“It’s a suit,” Freddie responded testily before reaching for his shoes, ignoring Bond’s inarticulate sound of disagreement.

When he turned around Bond had stepped into the room and picked up his worn copy of _The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_ from the bedside table. Freddie scowled as Bond flipped through the book and his bookmark fell out.

Sighing, Freddie held out his hand expectantly as Bond stooped to recover the bookmark.

“Bond,” he said. “Give it back.”

“It’s a lovely photo,” Bond said, studying the bookmark. “Almost looks like you really care about her.”

“Of course I really care about her,” Freddie spluttered. “She’s my best friend.”

“I thought she was your boss.”

“That, too.”

“Bet that makes for fun office shenanigans. Dating your boss.”

“Oh for crying out loud. We’re not a couple. She’s my friend, not my girlfriend. I wanted more for a hot second, but we’re good as we are. And why am I telling you this? Give me back my book.”

“And the photo?” Bond asked archly, handing back the book but holding the photo over his head and grinning at Freddie’s aggravation.

“And the photo,” Freddie growled, tossing the book on the bed and turning back to Bond. “How do you manage to be so bloody annoying?”

“It’s a gift.”

“You’re a curse,” Freddie groused as he jumped, trying to reach the photo Bond held just out of reach.

“You can do better than that,” Bond said, chuckling.

Freddie stood in the middle of his bedroom and glared at Bond. Drawing himself up to his full height, just a centimetre or so shorter than Bond, he nodded.

“Yes, I absolutely can,” he said, before launching himself at Bond.

Bond reacted quickly, but not quickly enough to keep them from landing on the floor. Freddie only took a minute to verify that Bond wasn’t hurt by the fall - the bastard was laughing - before he redoubled his efforts to wrestle the photo back.

He didn’t notice precisely when Bond let go of the photo, but he was very aware of the moment when Bond got the upper hand and flipped them so that he straddled Freddie’s hips, stretched out over him, pinning his hands above his head. Freddie struggled briefly, then stilled abruptly when parts of his anatomy expressed keen interest in their activities. It was like being jostled close on the motorbike, but better. And worse.

He couldn’t pretend it wasn’t happening. Couldn’t shift backwards or hide his blush behind Bond’s back. Bond could see him. Why had he thought tackling Bond was a good idea? The photograph was probably bent now, anyway, from their wrestling.

“Where is it,” he asked, trying to focus on the annoyance of showing his attraction to a man who wasn’t interested, and rolling his head to look around the floor for the photo.

“It’s safe,” Bond replied as he let go of Freddie’s wrists. He sat up slightly, but did not shift to get up. “I put it down out of the way so it wouldn’t get damaged.”

Damn it. Why did the bastard have to be so thoughtful?

And oblivious? Did he have no concept of the fact that his weight across Freddie’s hips was driving him to distraction?

Freddie looked up at Bond, and was surprised at the expression on Bond’s face. It wasn’t his charming facade —not a smirk or a leer or anything so brazenly provocative. There was fondness, and an open, genuine affection there. It took Freddie completely by surprise.

“Bond?”

“James,” Bond said. “Call me James.”

“Ja—”

Freddie heard the loose floorboard in the hall creak a moment before an anxious voice spoke.

“Freddie?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to mention that this fic has alternating POV, changing at each chapter. It's in the tags now. This chapter we get to peek inside James' head.

James felt Lyon tense under him at the sound of his father’s confused, concerned voice. Lyon’s eyes caught his, wide with panic and worry. James laid a hand on Lyon’s chest, feeling his heart rabbiting away, and gave him a small smile.

“Does your son have any ticklish spots, Mr Lyon? I was trying to find them and not having any luck.”

He could feel Lyon sag in relief when his father responded, diverted from anxiety by the question.

“Not my Freddie, no. Not ticklish at all. Never has been.”

“Ah, well,” James replied, shifting his weight to stand —and not missing Lyon’s quiet grunt as his movements applied pressure in interesting places— “I suppose there’s no point in continuing to poke around, then.”

On his feet again, he extended a hand to Lyon and helped pull him up.

“I’m quite ticklish, myself, if you find the right spots,” he said, flicking his gaze over to Lyon briefly, not letting go of his hand.

“Oh, my Myrna found a few of my ticklish spots,” Mr Lyon replied. “Freddie found all of them. Be careful around him or he’ll find yours as well.”

James could see the way Lyon hung on his father’s words. He didn’t think the older man usually spoke as much, or as clearly. He squeezed Lyon’s hand and let it go, reaching out to indicate that Mr Lyon should precede him down the hallway.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Mr Lyon. I don’t know that I’d mind his investigation, but perhaps now isn’t the time. I’m afraid I’m distracting him from his packing. I need to let him finish so I can get him to work. Perhaps while we wait, I can make you breakfast? Do you like scrambled eggs?”

“I do,” Mr Lyon said, turning and shuffling toward the kitchen. “I do.”

James followed Mr Lyon from the room, shooting a quick look back as he left. Watching them go, Lyon wore a somewhat dumbfounded expression —a mixture of concern, gratitude, and interest all evident on his face. He scowled when he caught James looking, though he couldn’t hold onto it, lips quirking at the edges. James smiled and motioned for him to get on with packing, and then turned his attention to Mr Lyon and breakfast.

Ten minutes later Lyon walked into the kitchen just as James was putting a plate of scrambled eggs down in front of his father.

“Have a seat,” James said, pointing at the other chair.

“What?” Lyon asked, puzzled. He had his suitcase in one hand, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder, jacket hung over his other arm.

“Put the suitcase down and come have a seat,” James said, spooning another serving of eggs onto a plate.

“I don’t usually eat breakfast,” Lyon said, though he put down the suitcase and draped his jacket over it before sitting at the table, shifting his messenger bag to rest on his lap.

“Today you do,” James said, sliding the plate in front of him.

“Thank you, Bond,” Lyon said, picking up his fork.

James cleared his throat, drawing Lyon’s attention. He smiled as Lyon took a bite of his eggs and groaned, eyes closing in pleasure, then cocked his head to the side as Lyon opened his eyes and caught his gaze.

“James,” he said.

Lyon flushed and shot a glance at his father, who either hadn’t heard, hadn’t understood, or didn’t care.

“James,” Lyon said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” James said grinning.

He ate the last couple of bites of egg out of the pan and then pointed his fork at Lyon.

“Eat up. I can get you to work on time, but the sooner you’re ready, the less cutting through traffic I have to do.”

Lyon grimaced. Clearly James’ quick turns and darting between vehicles had not been his favorite parts of the half-dozen rides James had given him to work in the last weeks. And honestly, as much as he liked the challenge of maneuvering the motorbike through tight spaces at speed, they weren’t James’ favorite parts, either.

He liked the feel of Lyon’s lithe form pressed up behind him, his body more often than not expressing a particular interest in their closeness.

James knew Lyon was interested in him, and the feeling was entirely mutual. Lyon was beautiful, and sharp, and had a wonderfully dry sense of humor. Still, James recognized that Lyon seemed to not want to be interested, which made him a bit prickly. Afraid that he had come on a bit too strong, James had backed off a bit with the flirting, and their interactions had fallen into a comfortable, witty banter that he quite enjoyed.

His inclusion in the country party had made Lyon skittish all over again, though, the tackle in the bedroom told a different story. One James much preferred.

He’d taken the flat after being reassigned from Manchester. He’d liked Lyon from the start, all snark and bother in a lovely lissome package. Then he’d learned about Lyon’s profession, as well as his dogged determination to follow a lead to the truth, and he’d become a useful resource.

But James liked him. Liked knowing that Lyon was interested in return. Liked thinking about the next steps in the dance they were weaving about one another. Lyon was useful to him, yes, but his interest in him was anything but professional.

He thought about the look in Lyon’s eyes as he’d asked him to call him James after their tussle in the bedroom. And the sound of his name in Lyon’s mouth when he’d finally said it over breakfast. It was something he’d like to get used to. And if he could get past Lyon’s surprise at being offered the intimacy of the use of his name, show him that the desire for a closer relationship was genuine … James wondered how Lyon’s name would taste on his tongue.

“All right,” Lyon said, dropping his fork on his empty plate. “I’m ready when you are.”

James pushed off from where he’d been leaning on the counter while Lyon leaned across the table, putting his hand over his father’s to get his attention.

“I’ll be away for the weekend. Mrs Goldman from downstairs will be up tonight and again tomorrow night to bring you dinner. The phone number to reach me is taped to the picture above the phone. I’ll be home on Sunday, all right?”

“Home on Sunday,” Mr Lyon replied.

“Right,” Lyon said, standing and dropping a kiss on his father’s head before picking up his jacket and suitcase and turning to James.

His expression held a challenge, as though he was daring James to comment on his interaction with his father.

“It was good to meet you, Mr Lyon,” James said, crossing the kitchen to the door, taking Lyon’s suitcase from him as he went.

Mr Lyon nodded without looking up. Lyon, standing next to him, sighed.

“Come on, then,” James said, his free hand going to Lyon’s back.

Lyon shot him an amused look as he allowed himself to be guided from the room.

“Bye, Dad! Back on Sunday!” he called out as they exited the flat and closed the door behind them.

James stepped away for a moment when they reached the ground floor to tuck Lyon’s suitcase inside the door to his flat. He’d bring it along to Hector’s in-laws later this evening. Now, though, it was time to get Lyon to work.


	3. Chapter 3

Freddie clung to Bond —to _James_ — for the ride to work. 

He didn’t quite know what to make of the invitation to use Bond’s given name. It was an unexpected intimacy that suggested that all of Bond’s — _James_ ’— flirtations were more than a reflex. The offer of his name, and the expression on his face when he’d had Freddie pinned to his bedroom floor, suggested more than idle chatter. It hinted, perhaps, that the interest he had expressed was real.

Freddie ducked his head behind _James_ ’ back to hide his grin.

His good mood was not spoiled by the pothole that he knew _James_ had hit on purpose, jolting him forward in the saddle. The idea that it wasn’t done to tease him —or, wasn’t done just to tease him— was heady. Bond —no, _James_ — flirted, yes, but perhaps it wasn’t all empty words and a charming-but-superficial smile. The look in his eyes had been affectionate.

When James brought the motorbike to a stop at the studio, Freddie slid back a couple inches and pulled his hands back from where they wrapped around James’ waist. He hesitated briefly, thinking about the other invitation he’d received that morning, then flexed his fingers and dug into the muscle at James’ hips.

James jumped a mile, laughing and cursing as Freddie slid off the bike.

“I guess that’s one spot I’ve found, or is it two?” he said, smirking as he danced back out of reach. “You did say you wouldn’t mind if I investigated.”

“And I don’t,” James replied with a smile as he pointed a finger at Freddie. “But no revisiting spots you’ve already found without explicit permission. Now, off with you. I’ll see you this evening at the Sherwin’s.”

Freddie waved him off and turned around, nearly running into Bel.

“That looked friendly,” she said in greeting, eyebrows raised.

“Shut up,” Freddie replied, but he was grinning.

“I don’t think I will,” Bel answered. “Not until you tell me why you’re smiling like a loon about a man you’ve been griping about for weeks, in spite of the rides to work he’s given you.”

“Am I smiling?”

“Yes, you are,” Bel said as they walked through the hall to her office. She pulled him in and closed the door behind them. “Why?”

“He’s ticklish.”

“How do you know?”

“Perhaps I deduced it, Watson.”

“From a crease in his shirt? Or the mud on his shoes? Really, Freddie.”

“I am an investigative journalist, Bel.”

“So you don’t plan to reveal your sources?”

“He said it himself,” Freddie replied with a shrug, then grinned. “Then he suggested that I might be welcome to find his ticklish spots.”

“Frederick Lyon. Sit down and explain yourself. Last week you wanted to kill him. Today you’re smiling because he invited you to put your hands on him.”

“The two might be related,” Freddie said a bit sheepishly. “He’s just so bloody attractive, and friendly, and helpful, but he flirts as easily as he breathes and I didn’t think he meant anything by it, except to annoy me.”

“Something changed your mind.”

“I don’t know that it’s entirely changed,” Freddie replied, “but I’m willing to reconsider based on new evidence.”

“Pulling teeth is easier than getting you to talk,” Bel complained.

“It was just something in his expression this morning, after I tried grabbing my bookmark back from him and ended up pinned on the bedroom floor—”

“What?” Bel shouted, then coughed and covered her mouth with a hand, eyes alight.

“I tried to tackle him. It didn’t work.”

“Oh, I think maybe it worked better than you think,” she said, and Freddie could hear her grin even before she pulled her hand away to reveal it.

“Shut up,” Freddie said, blushing. “But he looked … fond. Not cocky or smug. And he asked me to use his name. To call him _James_. And then he was so good with my dad, diverting him from worrying and making him breakfast and he was just so … kind.”

“And he told you he was ticklish, and invited you to put your hands on him,” Bel concluded with a smile.

“Something like that,” Freddie replied, ducking his head to hide a grin. He was still grinning when he looked up a minute later. “Maybe he means it? The flirting?”

“Given the way he watched you walk away?”

“He did not,” Freddie protested, smiling and moving to the door.

“He absolutely did,” Bel said, then looked at her watch. “All right, gossip break is over. Get to work you lazy layabout. We have a show to put together, and a party to attend.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Freddie said, giving her a mock salute and exiting the office.

Bond — _James_ — might mean it. But now was not the time to dwell on that enticing possibility. He had a job to do. Ruth’s murder wasn’t going to solve itself.

* * *

It was late when Freddie climbed into the back seat of Hector’s car for the drive out to the country house. Bel sat up front, in the passenger seat. Freddie grimaced at their quiet but obvious flirting. This was a disaster in the making.

He used the fading light to study the crossword puzzle and the letters in the code, only joining the conversation when directly addressed, or to correct Bel about never having received love poetry.

“Yes you have,” he said, and quoted, “ _(i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands_.”

“We were kids then,” Bel protested.

“It was five years ago, and it was true,” Freddie replied. “Still is, though not the way I thought then.”

Bel turned to look at him, expression soft in the dim light. He smiled at her, then sighed when she turned back to chat with Hector. He wanted to dislike Hector, but he couldn’t. Still, Bel deserved better than a man who would cheat on his wife.

Freddie rubbed his eyes and peered at the notebook before giving up and closing it. The last light had faded, and it was too dark to see.

* * *

“I hope the night time drive wasn’t too terribly awful,” Marnie said, leaning in to kiss the air at Freddie’s cheek after greeting Bel the same way. “Daddy was pleased that you’d all decided to come tonight so Hector could join the morning’s shoot. You’ve missed dinner, I’m afraid,” she chattered on, leading them into the house, “but I’ve asked Margaret to lay out a cold supper for you in the kitchen.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind,” Freddie murmured, glancing at Bel and trying not to laugh.

“I’ll just show you up to your rooms first, so you can get refreshed before coming down for a bite,” Marnie said, looking back and smiling as she guided them up the stairs.

“You’re in here, Ms Rowley, and Mr Lyon, you’re next door, in the green room. Daddy had a late addition to the party, so we ran short of bedrooms, but Hector said that you and Mr Bond were neighbours so I hoped you wouldn’t mind sharing? Being roommates for the weekend?”

Behind Marnie, Bel caught his eye and ducked her head to hide a grin. Yesterday the thought of sharing a room with James would have made him homicidal. Today it left him oddly flustered but not vexed, and damn Bel for laughing into her hand.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” he said to Marnie, who smiled at him, pleased.

“All right, then, I’ll leave you to it and come back shortly to take you to the kitchen for supper.”

“Yes, all right, thank you,” Bel said as Marnie turned to leave. “Is he here already? Mr Bond?”

“Oh, yes. He’s downstairs in the drawing room having an after-dinner drink. He’s put your luggage in your room, Mr Lyon,” Marnie replied.

Freddie said nothing as Marnie smiled and walked away, he and Bel left standing in the hall outside their rooms. Bel darted behind Freddie and opened the door to the green room he was apparently sharing with Bond.

With James.

“Two beds.”

“I should hope so, Watson,” Freddie replied.

“Do you really?” she asked. “And stop calling me that. I’m Holmes.”

“You aren’t,” Freddie said, moving into the room and locating his suitcase. “And of course, ‘really’. I’ve only just realized he might be genuine, I’m hardly going to jump into —What the devil is this?”

He pulled a jacket out of his suitcase and stared at it. Bel came to stand beside him, reaching out to touch the fabric.

“If he’s not genuine, he’s awfully invested in teasing you,” she said.

“There was nothing wrong with my jacket,” Freddie protested.

“The ugly brown one? I’ll grant that it fits you, but in every other sense, everything is wrong with it,” Bel replied, taking the jacket from him and hanging it in the wardrobe.

Freddie, nonplussed, handed her the matching waistcoat and trousers, along with a tie in a deep red that was the perfect accent for the dark navy suit.

“Probably won’t even fit,” Freddie said.

“He had your jacket and trousers for sizing,” Bel replied, draping the tie over the hanger and admiring it against the dark suit.

Freddie hummed noncommittally in response and rooted through the items still in the suitcase for his toothbrush and toothpaste. Marnie would be returning and expected to find them suitably ‘freshened up’.

“Oh, I knew I forgot something!” Bel said as Freddie put toothpaste on his toothbrush. “May I?”

He handed her the tube of toothpaste and shoved his toothbrush into his mouth, stooping to pick up a box he’d moved aside when he’d opened his suitcase. Toothbrush dangling from his mouth, Freddie sat on the nearer bed with the box in hand. He flipped open the lid, and nearly inhaled his toothpaste.

A pair of shiny black patent leather shoes sat nestled in a bit of paper inside the box.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was just too much, and all from a man he’d wanted to kill just yesterday for being attractive, flirty, and apparently uninterested. He was excited and terrified to learn he’d been wrong.

The bed dipped beside him and Bel wrapped an arm around his shoulders. It was a gesture filled with comfort, but her expression, when he looked up at her, was full of mischief.

“It would appear that Mr Bond is, in fact, serious in his flirting with you. And this,” she gestured at the suit, “is not a thing one does when all they want is to get a leg over.”

Freddie gaped, then scrambled to catch his toothbrush as it fell from his mouth.

“That,” he began, catching Bel’s amused expression, “is not a phrase for polite company.”

“You aren’t ‘polite company’, Watson.”

“No, I suppose not,” Freddie agreed. “And it’s Holmes. You’re Watson.”

“I’m definitely Holmes,” Bel replied, standing and ruffling Freddie’s hair. “It would appear that Mr Bond is, perhaps, courting you. If that’s something you want, you might let him, Freddie.”


	4. Chapter 4

Lyon had been quiet when he and James had finally found themselves alone in the green room. The suit James had bought him had been hung in the wardrobe. Lyon’s eyes lingered on it before he glanced thoughtfully over to where James sat propped up against the pillows of his bed, reading. Well, pretending to read while he tried to gauge Lyon’s reaction. Lyon was proud, and stubborn, and there was no guarantee that he’d accept James’ gift. James had his awful brown jacket and eye-searingly ugly orange tie tucked away in his own suitcase, in case Lyon refused.

Lyon remained quiet. He wasn’t angry at James’ presumption, and James took that as a good sign, as he turned another page he hadn’t read.

“I picked that tie on purpose, you know,” Lyon said eventually.

“Oh?” James asked, laying the book on his chest and looking at Lyon.

“I knew what they’d think of me. Dressed in that jacket. Best one I had, and not nearly good enough for this company. They might not have actually ridiculed me to my face, but I expected their scorn. Nothing else for it,” Lyon said, rising from his bed and moving to stand in front of the wardrobe to run a hand down the suit hanging there, picking at the tie. “I chose the tie because it’s ugly. Uglier than the jacket,” he said, laughing, and looking over at James with a small smile that invited him to join the laughter.

“It truly is hideous,” James agreed. “Ugly as sin.”

“Uglier,” Lyon replied. “That’s why I picked it. Can’t do anything about the derision aimed at the best jacket I own. But I can actively choose to court their scorn over the tie. A statement of sorts, I guess.”

“Did I rob you of the opportunity to rub their noses in your disregard of their sartorial arrogance?” James asked.

“No,” Lyon answered. “Not really. I mean, it was what I could do, given my options, but that didn’t mean I was looking forward to being sneered at for my clothes. I’ll never fit in, in this world. I don’t understand it. But, at least at dinner tomorrow, I won’t look so obviously out of place. Thank you, James.”

“You’re welcome, Mr Lyon.”

“It’s Freddie. I think after this,” he gestured to the suit, “you can call me Freddie.”

“I would be honoured to use your name, but not yet, I think. Not until you and I are both sure I didn’t buy the right to it.”

“As you like,” Lyon replied, his smile a bit more confident.

“What I’d like, right now,” James said, closing his book and setting it on the bedside table, “is to go to sleep. Some of us are getting up before the sun to go on some godforsaken shoot. I don’t know how you got out of it.”

“Told them I don’t know how to shoot,” Lyon answered.

“You told them that, but is it true?”

“I don’t like shooting. Hunting. I do know that an animal has to die for me to eat it, but I don’t care to be part of its death.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t know how to shoot, though,” James pointed out as he reached to turn off the lamp.

“It doesn’t, does it?” Lyon asked.

Even in the dark, James could hear his smile.

“Good night, James.”

“Good night, Mr Lyon.”

* * *

James had left his muddy boots downstairs and was returning to the green room to freshen up before lunch. He’d had a decent morning’s shoot, bringing down seven pheasants. Hector had also managed seven, but Marnie’s brother, Ralph, had been the leader of the morning’s shoot, bringing down thirteen.

He walked down to the door at the end of the hallway, then backed up to peer into the open doorway of the room assigned to Ms Rowley.

“Mr Lyon?” he said.

“Oh, James. You’re back. Shoot anything?”

“Seven pheasants, nine shots.”

“Marvelous.”

“What are you doing, Mr Lyon?” James asked, leaning a shoulder against the door frame.

“Looking for my toothpaste. Bel borrowed it yesterday evening. It’s not in her bathroom. It’s got to be here somewhere,” Lyon replied, gesturing around the room as he sat on the edge of the bed.

James watched as Lyon’s expression grew contemplative and he bounced on the bed again.

“Her bed is much softer than mine,” he observed, bouncing again.

“Is it?” James asked, crossing the room to rest a hand on the bed and pushing down on the bedcovers. “Oh,” he said. “Much softer than mine, as well.”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Lyon said, spinning in his seat as he bounced and landing with his knees on the bed.

A moment later Lyon was jumping on the bed, grinning hugely. James couldn’t help but grin in return. His enthusiasm was infectious.

“Jumping on the bed, Mr Lyon? What are you, thirteen?” he asked, trying to sound stern and failing utterly.

“You’re just afraid your poor hips can’t manage it, old man,” Lyon replied.

“I picked up yoga in my travels, my hips are just fine.”

“Are they, now?” Lyon asked, archly, extending a hand as he continued bouncing. “Come on up here and prove it.”

It was ridiculous. They were guests in Hector’s in-law’s home. In Ms Rowley’s room. It was uncouth and inappropriate.

He was on the bed almost before Lyon’s invitation had passed his lips. He jumped and nearly collided with Lyon, who laughed and reached out to take James’ arms, keeping them tethered and steady as they bounced.

It was only for a minute, and then Lyon flopped down onto the bed, still giggling. James sat beside him, leaning back against the pillows. He sighed, relaxing into the luxurious bedding - Ms Rowley’s bed really was much softer than the pair in the green room, only to be jolted out of the moment by a poke to his ribs.

“Found another one, did I?” Lyon drawled beside him.

James turned his head to look at Lyon, bemused.

“Anyone would jump if they were stabbed in the side. Hardly proof of finding anything,” he said, raising his eyebrows in challenge. “You’ll have to try harder than that.”

James kept his gaze on Lyon’s face as he felt a hand creep over his hip.

“Remember the rules. No revisiting spots already discovered. You have to find new ones.”

“One might think you wanted my hands roving your body,” Lyon murmured, eyes darting to look down the length of James' body, laid on the bed next to him. His hand crept higher.

“One might, indeed,” James replied, trying not to twitch under Lyon’s exploring fingers.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” Lyon said.

James wasn’t sure if Lyon meant his response, or the slight flinch as his fingertips ghosted up his ribs. He didn’t have a chance to wonder over it, however, as Lyon’s hand twitched and his fingers dug in to James’ ribs. He gave an undignified squawk and rolled away—

—and landed on the floor with a thump.

“Oh, shit,” he heard Lyon murmur a moment before his head and shoulder peeked over the edge of the bed.

James reached up and caught at Lyon’s shoulder and tugged. A moment later he had his arms filled with the man as he unbalanced and slid over the edge of the bed.

It was nearly a mirror image of their position the morning before, with Lyon straddling James’ hips, his hands on James’ shoulders as he pushed himself upright. James grinned up at him for a moment before his eyes darted over to the door as the sound of approaching footsteps stopped with a scuffing sound and a sigh.

“You boys do know how to put on a show, I’ll give you that.”

“Bel,” Lyon said, sitting up and shifting in a way that had James biting his lip to stifle a groan.

“Miss Rowley,” he managed after a minute.

“Mister Bond. Are you quite comfortable? With Freddie’s bony arse pressing you into the floor?”

“I do not have a bony arse,” Lyon replied indignantly, though he was grinning at Miss Rowley as he slowly climbed to his feet.

“I’ve no complaints,” James said, standing.

“Oh my God,” Miss Rowley said, glancing between them. “You’re each as bad as the other, aren’t you?”

“Oh, no, I’m much worse,” James said.

Lyon snorted, turning away to cover his face as he laughed.

“Marvelous,” Miss Rowley said, trying —and failing— to fight a smile. “Well, if you’re done groping one another in my bed, lunch is being served downstairs. And you, Freddie,” she paused, pointing at him as he turned to face her, “are expected to join the afternoon shoot.”

“I don’t actually want to hunt,” Lyon protested.

“You can be my loader,” James said.

Miss Rowley choked on air.

“You’re absolutely right, Freddie,” she said. “Everything he says is innuendo.”

“It’s a gift,” James said, smiling at the way Lyon caught the repeated phrase.

“You’re still a curse,” he said.

“And with that, I’m going to lunch. I expect I’ll see you both there,” Miss Rowley said, turning and exiting the room.

James and Lyon stood in the room for a moment before Lyon turned to James, eyebrow raised.

“I never did find my toothpaste.”

“You can use mine. Come on. I was on my way to freshen up before lunch.”

James smiled as he and Lyon stood shoulder to shoulder in the loo, brushing their teeth. Lyon finished and exited into the green room to put on a jacket while James splashed water on his face. They left together, headed down for lunch.


	5. Chapter 5

Freddie loaded for both James and Hector, who had loaned James the use of his third shotgun. Between the two of them, he hardly had a moment when he wasn't cracking a gun open to eject the shells, shove new shells into place, snap the gun closed and flick off the safety before handing it over and accepting the other shooter's gun for the same service. The shooting only lasted for about twenty minutes before the beaters emerged from the trees. Freddie watched the spaniels and retrievers bounding about the field to fetch the fallen birds for a moment before turning his attention to McCain and Le Ray in the next position to their right.

Hector had said that he'd seated Freddie next to Le Ray at lunch to give him an opportunity to question him about Ruth. What he'd primarily learned during their chat was that Le Ray was not at all broken up about the death of his fiancée. Before he'd had a chance to probe further, however, McCain had interrupted and the lunch conversation had turned to awkward political discussions.

"You knew her?" James asked, coming to stand next to him and nodding toward Le Ray. "His fiancée?"

"Ruth Elms. I grew up with her, sent out to live with her family in the country during the war, and back for summers after for a couple years," Freddie replied. "He should have loved her. She was beautiful, and smart, and kind. He was a fool not to love her."

"And you? Did you love her?"

"Of course I did. She was the little sister I never knew I wanted. She deserved so much more than a marriage of convenience to a man who wasn't interested in her."

"Perhaps you'll have better luck tonight. He usually loosens up after dinner," Hector said, joining them.

“Loosens up?” Freddie asked.

“You’ll see,” Hector said, gesturing for Freddie and James to begin walking back to the house. “Ralph thinks Adam’s funny when he’s drunk.”

“How do Ralph and Adam know each other?” James asked.

“School chums.”

“And McCain? How does he know Adam?” Freddie asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the two men.

“I wasn’t aware that they were acquainted until this weekend,” Hector replied.

“They look a little better than ‘acquainted’,” James murmured.

Freddie looked at Hector, but he just shrugged.

They’d reached the house, where Marnie and Bel were coming down the stairs to greet them. Freddie could hear Marnie enthusing about Hector’s shooting totals. He’d apparently managed to bring down twelve pheasants while Freddie had been too busy loading the shotguns to even really look at the birds overhead. He glanced over at James and raised an inquiring brow.

“Fifteen,” James said, answering the unasked question.

“Well done, you,” Freddie said as Bel joined them. “And you?” he said to her. “What have you been up to?”

“Marnie has us dancing in the dining room,” Bel replied.

Freddie heard Marnie trying to cajole Hector into helping her father with some of the hosting duties and turned round to walk backward as Hector replied, protesting that he had to clean the shotguns.

“I’ll take care of the guns, Hector,” he offered. “Least I can do, to thank you for the invitation.”

Marnie brightened and Hector looked resigned, but he handed the shotgun over with a word of thanks before following Marnie into the house.

“Well, that’s the rest of my afternoon sorted,” Freddie said, shotguns in both hands.

“Have fun with that,” Bel laughed and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’d better get back to dancing. Gotta jive.”

Freddie watched her go, then looked to where James stood, waiting.

“Right. These guns won’t clean themselves,” he said.

He and James made their way to the gun room and sat with their kit spread out between them. Freddie broke down the shotgun in quick, efficient movements. He felt James’ eyes on him.

“Lord Elms hunted,” he said as he cleaned the first gun. “Ruth’s father. I was invited along a time or two, before I decided it wasn’t for me.”

Freddie happened to glance up then, as he leaned forward to blow over the barrel of the gun. James’ eyes were dark and fixed on Freddie’s mouth —and wasn’t that interesting? Freddie sat back and waited for James’ gaze to drift up to meet his, then licked his lips and smirked as James’ eyes darted back down. He might quite like to be courted, but he would make James work for it, giving back the same level of teasing flirtation that James had been dishing out for weeks and watching him squirm.

“You don't appear to be making much progress cleaning your gun, James,” Freddie said, nodding toward the shotgun in James’ slack hand. “You should work on that.”

“You are a delightful menace, Mr Lyon,” James replied as he shifted his position and lifted the shotgun.

Freddie’s smirk faded as McCain entered the room. He reassembled the first shotgun and set it aside, lifting the second to begin cleaning it.

He heard McCain trying to goad him, making comments about his father. It was curious, how hard the man was trying to get under his skin, like he was trying to show off. Trying to call attention to something he considered a victory.

Freddie felt James shift next to him and moved to lay a hand on James’ thigh before looking up at him through his lashes. James’ expression was thunderous. He was clearly unhappy with McCain’s slander. James’ obvious anger on his behalf, and the suggestion that he cared enough to come to Freddie’s defense, warmed him. He smiled at James and dug his fingertips into the muscle of James’ inner thigh. James’ expression lightened even as his eyes darkened.

Behind them, McCain cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“It was you, wasn’t it,” Freddie asked, withdrawing his hand —slowly— and turning to face McCain. “You put pressure on Clarence to drop my interview with Lord Elm.”

He watched McCain adjust his glasses as he continued to work on the second shotgun, feeling James as a steady presence at his side.

“I believe the buck stops, as they say, with your producer,” McCain replied.

Freddie heard the gloating in his tone even as he denied involvement. And he wasn’t wrong. Bel had been the one to tell him his piece wouldn’t run. The pressure McCain had put on Clarence had landed on her.

He finished cleaning the barrel of the second gun and glanced at James to find the other man watching him carefully. James cocked an eyebrow, eyes darting to the disassembled shotgun in Freddie’s hands. Freddie’s lips quirked. Not a full smile —he was too upset with McCain’s insinuations and revelations for that— but still enough to draw James’ eyes back to his mouth, which only served to curve his lips more.

“Thank you,” he murmured, handing James the shotgun and standing, trailing a hand up his arm and over his shoulder as he rounded the bench to leave.

Freddie glanced at McCain as he left the room and noted the man’s flush as he ducked his head away from Freddie’s glare. A puzzle for another day. Right now he needed to see Bel.

A half an hour later, Bel had confirmed things he'd hoped weren't true. She’d admitted to the lie about the film blowing and he wasn’t quite sure what to do with that. Ruth Elms deserved justice, and he was sure that whatever it was that had made her a target for murder was big news. But Hafiz was the bigger story. He denied it, but he knew better.

He couldn’t run the film now, and couldn’t get Lord Elm to so much as take his calls. But he wasn’t going to stop investigating Ruth’s murder.

Which was why he was on the phone with Isaac when Bel walked into the bedroom and straight through the open en suite bathroom door while he was in the bath.

He sat up in a hurry, handing her his cigarette while trying fruitlessly to shift about or find bubbles to shield his body from view before giving it up as wasted effort. His phone call with Isaac became a three-way conversation as Bel asked questions and Freddie relayed answers, before Isaac hissed that Kish was leaving and Lix took over the call. Freddie wondered how everyone was suddenly involved in surveilling Kish, but had to agree that no, Isaac was no Poirot.

He hung up the phone and turned to Bel, holding out a hand for a towel.

“Why are you even in here?” he asked as she stood and moved toward the sink as he rose, wrapping the towel around his waist.

“Returning your toothpaste,” she said, putting the item on the counter and catching his eye in the mirror. She turned to face him as he sat on the edge of the tub. “And, I wanted to apologize. I’m sorry. I should have told you the truth about the Lord Elms film.”

Freddie looked at her as she fidgeted, and gave a quick nod.

“Yes, you should have. Don’t be like them, Bel, please.”

“I won’t,” she said, coming to stand in front of him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. “I promise.”

The bedroom door opened and both Freddie and Bel turned in time to see James wide-eyed and slack-jawed in the doorway before they heard Marnie’s voice approaching. James blinked and hastily pulled the door closed.

“Ow!” Freddie said as Bel pinched him. He turned to her and caught her grinning at him. “What?” he asked, rubbing his arm.

“You left the bathroom door open,” she said.

“Yes, and you walked right in,” Freddie replied.

“I did, but you didn’t leave it open for me, did you?”

Freddie glared at her but it dissolved into a grin a moment later.

“Regardless of him courting you, you don’t owe him anything but a chance, and that only if you decide he deserves it,” she said as she walked away. She stopped and turned around, gesturing at the open bathroom door. “Shall I leave this open?”

“Just go, Watson. I’ll see you at dinner.”

Freddie watched through the open bathroom door as Bel slipped out the bedroom door to the hallway. He wondered at his brazen display as he stood and moved to the sink to brush his teeth. He’d known —and been irritated by the fact that— he was attracted to James. He’d assumed from the flirtation that James was at least passingly attracted to him as well. For weeks, though, he’d refused to try to get to know James any better, as he watched the man flirt with everyone and was left believing that the flirtation was meaningless words at worst, or evidence of physical interest only at best.

He’d seen James’ affection now. Knew that the interest was deeper than superficial attraction. Understood that his own interest was welcome. He had been invited to get to know James better, ticklish spots and all, and he looked forward to it. But perhaps waiting naked in the bath for James to walk in was taking the playful edge of their teasing, new as it was, a bit too far.

Before he had a chance to finish his teeth and move through to the bedroom to get dressed, the door opened and Freddie watched with wry amusement as James backed into the room.


	6. Chapter 6

James felt the door open at his back. He stepped to the side as Miss Rowley slipped out into the hall, pulling the door closed behind her.

“Towels?” she asked.

“Mrs Madden said she wasn’t sure if we had enough,” James replied, glancing down at the stack of towels in his hands.

“Well, you should bring those in to Freddie,” Miss Rowley responded. “I’m sure he’d appreciate them.”

James nodded without turning to look at her, and heard her smothering a laugh as she left.

James had to give Lyon credit. He’d turned the tables on James in an unexpected and quite delightful way. James was _flustered_ , and he could not think of the last time that had happened.

He smiled and reached behind him for the doorknob and let himself into the room. A quick glance showed that the bathroom door remained wide open. Lyon, with a white towel wrapped around his waist, looked startled for a moment before he gave a somewhat rueful smile around his toothbrush.

Well. The open door was an invitation to look, so he did, smiling at the mischievous glint in Lyon’s reflected gaze.

“Did you need another towel? Or three?” he offered, holding out the stack of towels.

Lyon spat out his toothpaste and rinsed his mouth before turning to reach for a towel. He scrubbed it over his face before running it up over his hair, leaving it tousled and gorgeous as he draped the towel over his shoulders.

“Such fantastic service at this establishment,” he said, grinning, as he stepped out into the bedroom, leaving James holding the remaining towels.

He set them on the counter and exited the bathroom in time to see Lyon pull his pants on over a frankly delicious arse. Right. Well. Two could play at that game.

James shucked off his jacket and began working on the buttons of his shirt, noting that Lyon’s progress in dressing slowed as he shed garments. He heard Lyon’s gentle huff of laughter and smiled. They didn’t speak, but the silence was comfortable as they continued to dress.

“They’re a little long in the leg,” Lyon said as he tucked his shirt into his trousers.

James looked over and nodded.

“How about the jacket?”

“Give me a minute,” Lyon replied, waistcoat on but unbuttoned, shirt collar flipped up as he began knotting the tie at his throat.

That … well. That was a good look on him. Not disheveled, but half dressed. James wondered just what exactly he’d gotten himself into. The thought was fleeting, though, because whatever it was, he was enjoying it.

Lyon had finished with the tie and was buttoning up the waistcoat over it. It fit him beautifully.

The jacket was a touch too wide in the shoulders, but was good over his chest and hugged his waist perfectly.

“You look gorgeous,” James breathed.

“You clean up fairly well, yourself,” Lyon replied. He was blushing, but not at all shy about receiving James’ compliment, or offering his own.

“Dinner is going to be hellish, isn’t it?” Lyon asked as he fixed his cuffs.

“Oh, definitely,” James agreed. “These events always are. I learned at an early age that if one wanted to keep civil at dinner one should avoid discussing politics and religion.”

“Civil dinners sound rather boring,” Lyon replied.

“They are,” James said as he tied his shoes.

“Well, if my choices are heated debate or stultifying boredom, I’ll just go ahead and discuss politics and religion, then.”

“I don’t think anyone would expect otherwise from you.”

“I should hope not,” Lyon said, running a hand through his messy hair, before shrugging and heading for the door.

James smiled. Lyon clearly still meant to own any derision that came his way, in spite of the new suit. He appreciated that attitude.

He was fond of the tousled look, as well.

*

Dinner went about as well as it could. Lyon was seated next to Mrs Madden, and he clearly reigned in his appetite for animated discussions in deference to his hostess’ desire for a more jovial atmosphere.

After dinner, James and Lyon joined Hector, McCain, and Mr Sherwin in the billiard room while the other guests danced. There was a bit more talk of politics and current events as the players took their shots around the table. Lyon was in the thick of things, discussing the differences between privacy and secrecy, as well as the need for one and the effect of the other in a democracy.

He was distracted from his conversation by Adam Le Ray’s entrance.

James watched the actor, listening to his drunken rambling, and the things he didn’t say —and the man to whom he did not say them.

McCain’s expression did not betray his anger with Le Ray as the actor invaded his personal space, but it was clear in his tone as he quoted the latest review of Le Ray’s play.

James noted the way Lyon’s gaze sharpened at Le Ray’s response.

“I only did what you told me to,” the actor said. “Marry her and everything would be all right.”

Sherwin had also had enough of Le Ray’s morose drunkenness and told Hector to pour the man into bed. James put down his drink to assist as Hector began guiding Le Ray from the room. He could feel Lyon’s presence at his back.

“What was he talking about?” Lyon asked as he followed Hector and James through the door to Le Ray’s room.

“God knows,” Hector replied.

Le Ray was giggling as he wiped sweat and tears from his face.

“I’m going to be sick,” he said.

Hector picked up the bin and shoved it at him. Le Ray clutched at it, still laughing, still crying.

“What did you mean?” Lyon demanded. “You did what he said to do? Who? McCain? What did he tell you to do?”

“Marry her.”

“Ruth?”

“And then everything would be okay?” James asked.

“That’s what he said,” Le Ray said with a nod and a groan. “If I married her, no one would know what I am.”

“What you are?” Lyon repeated.

“Homosexual,” James said.

“Why would anyone care?” Freddie demanded.

“Asked like a man who spends his life on the wrong side of a camera,” Le Ray replied with a snicker. “Not in front of it. Isn’t that right, Hector?” He turned to Lyon, reaching an unsteady hand to cup his face, drawing his thumb across Lyon’s mouth as Lyon jerked away. “Have to keep the interest of the ladies in the audience or the play flops. The film flops. The programme flops. Lucky Hector. Actually likes women. Likes them too much—”

James caught Lyon’s glance at Hector, and Hector’s tight-lipped expression. But Lyon didn’t follow that lead. He turned back to Le Ray.

“McCain told you to marry Ruth to cover your homosexuality to benefit your career. Why her?”

“Girl in trouble. Not spoiled for choice, was she? You didn’t think it was for love, did you?”

Le Ray shifted on the bed, pulling his legs up and collapsing onto his side, still clutching the bin as he rubbed his face on the duvet. James stood and pulled Lyon to his feet. Lyon’s gaze was fixed on the actor curled up on the bed, crying. His expression was troubled. James assumed he was thinking about Ruth and the loveless marriage that had awaited her.

“I don’t think we can leave him alone,” Lyon said, surprising him. He glanced at James, then at Hector.

Hector nodded.

“He’s a bit worse than I’ve seen him before. I’ll get Ralph to come look after him.”

Lyon stood next to James as Hector left the room. He didn’t say anything, staring down at Le Ray as the actor muttered into the bedding. James slid an arm around Lyon’s shoulders. He worried for a moment as Lyon stiffened, but then he relaxed and leaned into James’ side. They stood like that until Ralph arrived.

James followed Lyon out of the room and glanced at the stairs as Lyon walked toward the door at the end of the hallway.

“Not going back to the party?” he asked.

“I’ve got work to do,” Lyon replied, opening the door to their shared bedroom.

James found himself following. Lyon was strong and stubborn and resilient, but at the moment, he perhaps needed company as much as Le Ray did. Not a minder, but a presence at his side to let him know he wasn’t alone.


	7. Chapter 7

Freddie didn’t quite know what to make of James following him into the green room. He didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to flirt. Didn’t want to be distracted from the task at hand.

Adam Le Ray had said something that niggled at him. He already had the puzzle of the crossword cipher, and now there was another mystery to deal with. Why had Ruth agreed to marry a man who didn’t love her, and whom she did not love?

He slid out of his jacket and hung it in the wardrobe, then bent to untie his shoes. Behind him, he could hear James doing much the same, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t ask questions. 

Freddie slipped out of his shoes and sank onto the bed. He shoved all the pillows up against the headboard and settled back against them. Picking up his notebook with one hand, he loosened his tie with the other. He spent the next hour going over his notes, piecing the letters together into words, and the words into phrases.

James was a quiet constant in the room. Freddie appreciated the support he felt in the man’s company, and the manner in which he gave it, without demanding Freddie’s attention.

“He knows,” Freddie murmured, writing the words in the notebook. “Revert to brightstone.”

Freddie tapped the pencil on his lip, thinking.

“He knows.”

There was giggling in the hallway, followed by the sound of a door closing. Freddie looked up and caught James watching him. He tapped the pencil on his lip again and watched James gaze track the movement. Smiling faintly, and promising himself to investigate James’ reaction further at a more appropriate time, Freddie snapped the notebook closed and sat up. His expression was interested, but apologetic as he looked at James but opened his mouth to call out—

“Bel?”

He stood and crossed the room to the door, his hand briefly tracing the line of James’ shoulder as he passed. 

A moment later he put a glass of water on the nightstand next to the bed where Bel lay, still dressed in her dinner gown, then climbed into the bed beside her. She rolled toward him as he leaned on his elbow, notebook held in his other hand.

“He knows. Revert to Brightstone,” he read.

Bel took the notebook from him and read some of his other attempts to decipher the message. Some of the phrases were truly ridiculous, and he laughed as he sat up and reclaimed the notebook.

“Why would you marry someone you didn’t love?” he asked.

“Freddie. You know I love you, but I am not marrying you.”

“I love you, too, and you know I’m not asking. Well. I’m not asking you to marry me. I am asking though. Why would anyone marry someone they didn’t love?”

“Because you were lonely. Because you had to—”

“Because you were ‘in trouble’?”

“Pregnant?”

“Is that—? That’s what ‘in trouble’ means?”

“Sweet, innocent boy,” Bel said as she climbed off the bed and crossed to the vanity to look in the mirror as she took off her jewelry.

“Hardly,” Freddie replied.

He looked back at the notebook. He didn’t know what the connection was to Ruth’s pregnancy and the ‘Brightstone’ message, but he was sure there was one.

“Because,” he began, “the person you loved was doing something he shouldn’t. Because he was a spy passing secrets.”

That, and the pregnancy, explained Ruth’s motivations for her engagement to Adam Le Ray. The actor’s were simpler.

“Because you had something to hide. Because there was a promise of a career at the end of it.”

A finger landed on his lips and he looked up a Bel.

“It’s after one in the morning, Freddie. Go to bed.”

Freddie slouched back against the pillows and smiled at Bel’s fond exasperation as she rolled her eyes, arms doing something complicated as she reached behind herself to pull down the zip of her gown.

“Not here,” she said, turning away as she slid the dress down over her shoulders and shimmied out of it, leaving her standing in her chemise. “You’ve got someone waiting in your room.”

Freddie watched as she draped the dress over the back of a chair.

“He’s not worth it, Bel.”

“Bond?” she asked, turning, surprised.

“Not James, Hector,” Freddie replied, sitting up. “He’s a decent bloke, but he’s still a man who will cheat on his wife. And there’s the issue of you being his boss …” Freddie stood and crossed the room to stand in front of Bel, hands grasping her shoulders. “Be careful, Bel. Don’t get hurt. Don’t lose The Hour over him.”

“I won’t,” Bel replied, breath hitching.

Freddie nodded and leaned in to kiss her cheek before he moved to the door. His hand was on the doorknob when he heard her whisper, “I’ll be careful.”

He didn’t turn around, but he nodded. It was all he could really ask for, after all. He slipped out of her room and returned to the one he shared with James.

James had changed into pyjamas and was lying back in his bed, reading. He glanced up at Freddie when he came in.

“All right?” he asked.

“Fine,” Freddie replied, tossing his notebook on his bed and pulling off his waistcoat.

He could feel James' gaze as he hung the waistcoat and moved to his button and fly. He knew he could turn and look over his shoulder and wink, and James would smile and the tension in the room would take on a different flavor. It wasn’t an unwelcome thought.

The quiet patience that hung in the air wasn’t unwelcome, either. Freddie marveled at the way he knew to his bones that James was watching him with concern, rather than interest. Well. There was interest, as well.

But now wasn’t the time for it, and James clearly respected that. Respected him.

Freddie smiled at the thought as he shucked off his trousers, the tails of his shirt hanging down to hide his pants from view.

“I am all right,” Freddie said over his shoulder as he draped the trousers over a chair. “I’m not happy, but I’m all right.”

“Is there anything I can do?” James asked.

“No, but thank you. And thank you, again, for the suit, and the company at that dreadful dinner. I appreciated it.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Freddie pulled on his pyjama bottoms before sliding the shirt from his shoulders, leaving him in his vest. Tossing the shirt over the trousers, he turned, and caught James’ fond smile. He had no idea how he’d missed the edge of affection in James’ looks over the last weeks, only hearing the teasing. The idea that the attraction was mutual, and that James was interested in more than a fling, warmed Freddie. He looked forward to exploring what the future held in store for them.

He scooped up his notebook and put it on the nightstand, pulled back the covers and slid into bed. James had his hand on the lamp switch.

“Good night, James.”

“Good night, Mr Lyon.”

* * *

Hector woke them far too early the next morning with news of a phone call. Freddie heard his father’s panic in his breathing as he struggled to find words. He reassured his father that he was on his way home, and that Mrs Goldman would be up to check on him shortly.

James had packed his bags for him, and was pulling his car around as Freddie apologized to Mrs Goldman for the early call. She agreed to go upstairs to sit with his father while he made his way home, and Freddie thanked her before hanging up.

Hector took their bags out to the car as James opened the trunk, and Freddie made to follow him out. McCain stopped him in the foyer, just inside the front door.

“You think you heard something last night, Mr Lyon. What you actually heard were the drunken ramblings of an actor whose career is faltering at the starting gate,” McCain said, pointing a finger at Freddie’s chest.

“What I heard were the anguished confessions of a man marrying a woman he didn’t love in order to buy a career by maintaining his appeal to women through denial who he is and what he wants,” Freddie replied, brushing McCain’s hand away. “But that’s hardly interesting. Nor is the fact that his bride-to-be was marrying him to hide her own bit of trouble. No, Mr McCain. What’s interesting is that you brokered this marriage deal, with promises of a career for Mr Le Ray and legitimacy for Ruth Elm’s child. Now why would you do that?”

“I’m sure—”

“Oh, I am, too,” Freddie interrupted. “And I plan to speak further with Mr Le Ray. To hear all he has to say. But not just now. If you’ll excuse me, I really must dash. Do give my regards to the PM at your meeting this afternoon. I’ll be very interested to hear what new plans he dreams up for dealing with Suez. Good day, Mr McCain.”

Freddie pushed the door open and stalked through it, catching both Hector and James watching, wearing matching frowns.

“All right?” Hector asked as Freddie rounded the car to open the passenger door.

“I am, yes. I’ll be better once I’ve checked on my father. Thank you for your hospitality, Hector, and please give my thanks to Marnie as well.”

“Of course. I’m glad you both could join us. Never did get to sit down and catch up properly, James. Perhaps a drink some evening.”

“Let’s do that,” James said, shaking Hector’s hand before turning to Freddie. “Ready?”

“Let’s go,” Freddie replied, sending a mock salute to Bel in her window and climbing into the car.

James started the engine and pulled out of the drive, taking them back to London.


End file.
